


Fishbowl (prompt #4)

by pinebluffvariant



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinebluffvariant/pseuds/pinebluffvariant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty hours with no sleep. A Madison hotel room in winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fishbowl (prompt #4)

Thirty hours without sleep. The past two days have been chock full of drama like one of those telenovelas she watched while convalescing from her shooting, Scully thinks.

They’ve seen it all: Nightmarish travel through O'Hare in the deep of winter, the threat of losing it over lost luggage that's quickly found, an hour to crash in a painful airport chair right after she’d drunk a cup of strong coffee, three autopsies when they finally arrived in Madison, contradictory evidence, Mulder’s whims and fancies and his droning voice annoying her as easily as he wound up the springs inside her. She didn’t want to see his face. She wanted to be plucked.

Two, three calls to Mulder who’d disappeared out into the field. Finally a call back. He’d sprained his wrist. Could she come get him at the community clinic? Thirty hours with no sleep and all she has to show for it are liver samples in their vials in her briefcase, cheeks raw from the wind, and a pathetic partner who won’t be dipping the slender fingers of his dominant hand inside her at any point tonight.

She takes him back to their hotel, fetches the liner from the ice bucket and ties it around his bandaged hand. She runs a bath. “Thank you, Scully,” he mumbles, embarrassed, as she undoes his belt buckle.

“Don’t thank me yet, Mulder. You don’t know what comes next. Maybe you’ll never see it coming.”

He makes a show of swallowing and looking scared, his eyes huge. She stands up, shucks her clothes efficiently as she walks away from him into the bathroom. She hears him fumble pathetically with the remainder of his clothes. He trips over his pants behind her as she eases her frozen body into the water. The lights are out.

He follows her into the bathroom. His eyes scan her body. She moves minutely and watches him watch her breasts jiggle and bob above the water. His tongue darts out and she wants to keep teasing but the plastic bag around his wrist rustles and the moment’s gone.

“Can I join you?” he asks carefully. She knows he can see her frowning. She nods and tries her best to look bored, nonchalant. She’s annoyed and taut as a bow, angry with him and wanting to fuck him blind. It’s always like this, hot and overflowing with the spectrum of emotions. She still resents it.

His back slides across her front. He’s trying not to lean back too hard lest he crush her, so she scoots back and sits up straight, cradling his waist between her thighs as he reclines awkwardly.

His knees poke out above the water, skinny and scarred from years of adventure and stupidity. His injured hand rests on top of the soap rest in the wall, and the good one is crossed over her arms where she holds him around the waist. She places a kiss against his temple.

She decides to make him pay, play with him a little. Her fingers stroke his stomach.

“You know what I’ve been thinking?” Her voice is low and theatrical, secretive.

“What?”

“Some time I want us to fuck in front of an open window.”

His body stills.

“It’s like this,” she continues into his ear, kissing and licking a little, “we’re in a motel, on the first floor. It’s dark, just the light from the parking lot illuminates the place. I’m standing in front of the window. You’re behind me. There’s a breeze, it’s spring and there’s a breeze and it’s wonderful.”

“No,” he chokes out suddenly. “We’re at your place.”

“We are?” Their arms and legs shift against each other instinctively, hold each other closer. The tight points of their bodies touch gently in the water.

“We’re at your place. The lights in the kitchen are on. We’re in the living room,” he continues dreamily, “on the couch. You’re on your knees, leaning over the back of the couch. I’m behind you. We’re facing the window. It’s not even dark yet.”

She snakes her hand between their bodies, gives herself a little stroke. She’s playing now. “People are walking by. Coming home from work.”

“We’re in the middle of the climb, after a good half hour of you coming on my face. We’re going pretty hard at this point so anyone walking by can detect motion.” His head lolls back against her shoulder, and she catches his eyes briefly before they slip shut. He swallows, tightens his grip on her hand. He doesn’t want to touch himself. It’s part of the game.

“And they do,” she counters. “A woman walks by my window and sees us. She looks away quickly but not before she’s caught a good look of you grabbing my breast and biting my neck.”

“We’re reckless.” He’s almost giving up. She can feel him thrum and vibrate against her. She fingers herself harder, makes sure he feels her knuckles against the base of his spine.

He doesn’t move, not his good arm, not his bandaged one. He doesn’t move. He just feels her with his whole being. She senses the pull. “We love it. I love it. It’s like we’re in a fishbowl.”

“We have nothing to- nothing to hide,” he manages. It’s time to be merciful.

She shrugs her arm out of his vice grip, moves her hand down his stomach, and grasps his erection. He’s heavy against her palm. “We have nothing to hide,” she agrees, and starts to move.

They’re vibrating against each other at their own secret frequency. There in the bath, under the blanket of his sighs, she wants to bottle this moment and keep it, take a little hit every time he makes her mad, every time he leaves her cold and disappointed.

The plastic around his wrist rustles again, he thrusts up into her hand, and there in the dark room she is filled with love, nothing but love.


End file.
